KINSMAN’S OATH By Susan Krinard

One chance, and one only. The corridor is empty, he projected, wrapping the suggestion in a pleasant, innocuous fog. No one approaches from any direction. No movement, no threat.

The marine looked through Ronan as he stalked to the doors. Silence. Emptiness. Ronan punched the passcard into the slot. The guard glanced toward him. Ronan went still. The man stared in the opposite direction.

The door opened. Ronan made himself small and stole inside, and the door closed automatically. Space opened up before him, dominated by a massive central structure, ovoid in shape, a dragon’s egg piercing the deck on which he stood. Its base rested on the deck below, visible from a railed landing circling the egg. Walkways provided access to the ovoid’s surface, its multifaceted metallic skin made of no material Ronan had ever seen.

Extending from the egg to the bulkheads were numerous frosted conduits and thick cables, haphazardly laid across the deck or suspended above it with no apparent thought to order or harmony. The entire assemblage was a kind of grotesque hybrid, very much like the Pegasus itself appeared from the outside.

Ronan crept closer to the edge of the landing. Banks upon banks of electronics hugged the bulkhead from the lower deck to the overhead of the second deck. Nearly every centimeter of deckspace was filled with consoles. Crewmen and women hurried among them, consulting monitors filled with scrolling data, complex equations, and multicolored waveform displays—far too many screens for a single technician to remain at any one post. An Charts moved from station to station, giving orders or answering questions. Her aspect was both stern and apprehensive.

Ronan kept to the deck and the shadows, relying on simple stealth. The very air hummed with the agitation of beings intent on survival, their minds focused entirely on the preservation of the ship and its precious drive.

Such grim preoccupation made it easier for Ronan to cloud minds, for the crewfolk were already convinced that nothing existed outside of their vital duties. Even so, the strain was great. Any inattention on his part would expose him to discovery, yet he had to reserve some part of his mind for the work at hand.

The datastream displays were in a technical language mostly beyond Ronan’s experience, but he understood enough of it to know what he was looking for. At last he found it on a single monitor left unattended for a few crucial minutes.

Ronan scanned the room for a data slide and found one at the adjoining console. Moving slowly to maintain the illusion of invisibility, he inserted the slide into the recess of his console.

Only one step remained. He searched for the download icon on the screen.

And stopped, as if someone had stayed his hand.

“I know little of these powers of the mind, but this thing you share can either bind you or drive you apart. Do not waste this great gift.”

Ronan’s concentration wavered. One of the crew turned toward him with a frown.

You cannot.

He withdrew into himself, becoming small and insignificant once more. The technician looked away. Sickness gathered in Ronan’s throat, and tremors seized his legs. He could no longer feel his fingers. Abruptly the sirens ceased, fading into a whine that deafened Ronan to every sound but that of his own heartbeat.

“Attention all sections,” a distant voice announced. “We have cleared shaauri space. Status and damage reports to captain’s console in ten minutes.”

Other voices, other thoughts crowded Ronan’s mind. He was beginning to lose control of them. Now that the crisis was over, someone would seek him in his cabin and find him absent. Cynara would know him for what he was.

He turned blindly toward the section door. It opened without warning and the marine stepped through.

“Chief Antoniou,” he called.

The man’s suspicion swept over Ronan like suffocating vapor, and he dropped into a crouch. Centimeter by centimeter he crawled along the deck. The guard walked past him. Ronan felt for the door panel and slotted the passcard. It jammed, and he wasted costly seconds prying it loose. With the last of his fading concentration he stumbled out the doors, maintaining the facade of invisibility until he had reached the nearest cross-corridor.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *